


"with you by my side, there's nothing else i want"

by future_fae_king



Category: The Gentleman's Guide to Vice and Virtue Series - Mackenzi Lee
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Dumbass Rights, Felicity is a good sister, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Henry Montague Sr.'s A+ Parenting, Hurt/Comfort, I just want them to be happy, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Richard Peele (Mentioned in hatred) - Freeform, What else is new, because it's gent's guide, bon apetite, but they're getting better!!!, disgustingly domestic, felicity has the brain cells in algiers, had a breakdown, hms is the Worst, in which the author projects onto monty, mercy communication, monty has internalized homophobia, monty is a disaster, percy is bad at talking about feelings, post-tlgtpap, sort of a proposal?, started making this, the girls make an appearance, they're still bad at talking to each other, we hate Richard Peele
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-04
Updated: 2020-09-04
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:34:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26287306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/future_fae_king/pseuds/future_fae_king
Summary: “All I said was that if you were a lady, I’d have married you by now."In which Percy makes an offhand remark, Monty panics, and Felicity is holding all of the brain cells hostage in Algiers.
Relationships: Felicity Montague & Henry "Monty" Montague, Henry "Monty" Montague & Percy Newton, Henry "Monty" Montague/Percy Newton, Simmaa "Sim" Aldajah & Johanna Hoffman & Felicity Montague
Comments: 17
Kudos: 96





	"with you by my side, there's nothing else i want"

**Author's Note:**

> title from 'paris, or wherever we are' by Milo hearn
> 
> i,, i really have nothing to say for myself i just wrote everything that i wanted to see that didn't show up in canon  
> i might get vibe checked once nobleman's guide comes out, but i'm alright with that

It’s far too early in the morning for Percy to be making mind-bending statements, and yet, here I am, choking on my toast in shock and making a rather valiant attempt to seem as discreet as possible.

He looks up from the sheet music he’s studying to stare at me, and really, that only makes it worse, because somehow, even after being together forever and nearly two years of being up front about being completely enamored with him, morning-Percy still does things to my heart that make it hard to form full sentences.

I manage to stutter out a weak “ _What_?”

Percy looks at me as though I’ve grown another head. “All I said was that if you were a lady, I’d have married you by now,” he repeats, casual as can be and reaching for my hand.

 _What the hell is he on about?_ I laugh, because it’s all I can think to do, and sling an arm around him. “I’m sure I would make a radiant bride, darling. What I lack in wealth, I make up for in pure charm. Have you gotten the blessing of my family yet?”

Percy chuckles, and for a moment I think it’s forced, but then he says, deadpan, “I have written and eagerly await their letter. We shall wed upon its arrival.”

“Ah yes, and you will whisk me home to your manor, where we will raise a gaggle of children blessed with your magnificent curls, and live happily ever after for all time.”

I’m expecting a laugh, one of those gorgeous ones where Percy throws his head back, his eyes alight and to the sky, and I get a moment to be dearly grateful that I get to bear witness to it. But instead, I watch his half-smile wilt before he pastes on a new one. “Ha. Exactly.”

I can’t help but feel like I’ve done something wrong, but I’ve got absolutely no idea what it is. God, this is the absolute worst kind of guilt, when you’re not even sure what you’re meant to feel sorry for. Percy’s turned back to his sheet music; both of his hands are firmly planted on the table.

I should just ask him what he meant. I should apologize. I should. “Perce—” I begin, right as he starts speaking. “Sorry, you first.”

He turns to talk into my good ear. “I was just wondering if we needed more bread. I can pick it up in between shows if we do.”

I silently thank whatever God there might be that he’s moved on. “We’re fine.”

There’s a bit of uncomfortable silence in which I finish the remainder of my toast and Percy flips through his music before he turns again. “What were you saying?”

And, bloody coward that I am, I lie. “It’s not important.”

…………

_Felicity,_

_I am fully aware that I will deeply regret writing to you as soon as I receive your reply. However, as I am your brother, and have saved your life upon multiple occasions (yes, it still counts even if it was my fault in the first place), I would like to think you could perhaps abandon that sarcastic tone of which you are so fond long enough to provide a logical eye in a time of crisis._

_Do you think if Percy was a lady we’d have been married by now?_

_Your dearest brother_   
_(I’m afraid you’re rather stuck with me),_   
_Monty_

I’ve just sealed the letter when I realize how ridiculous I sound, so I start another.

_Felicity,_

_Perhaps I should clarify. Percy thinks that if I were a lady, he’d have married me. He told me so over breakfast. Why do you suppose he said that? I’m not a lady, so the whole point is moot. There’s no sense dealing in hypotheticals. You’re a proper intellectual now; care to offer up some analysis?_

_Oh, and I suppose I should ask how Algiers is. Is Sim still terrifying? Have you gotten to hack someone’s leg off in the name of medicine yet? We’re living out of Platt’s house now, but we’re both still working so that we can come and visit. I haven’t told Percy I’m writing to you, because that seems like an excellent way to make myself look exceedingly thick (asking you for advice in romantic matters is probably one of the more hopeless things I’ve done), but he sends his love anyway._

_Monty_

…………

I’m forced to leave for work before Percy returns from his concert, so I manage to drop off the letters to Felicity on the way without having to answer any questions about why I’ve suddenly become so determined to keep in touch with my sister. I’m not sure how I would phrase my answer: _Perce, darling, I love you, but you are dreadfully confusing sometimes and I have decided to ask my little sister to interpret your words rather than just have a direct conversation with you. No, I don’t want you to tell me what you meant, I’d rather just wait a month or two for Felicity to write back telling me I’m a dunce and explaining everything without all of these messy emotions thrown in._ That seems to cover just about everything and also makes absolutely certain that Percy will leave me for someone who can participate in a discussion about feelings without making an arse of himself.

God, I thought getting together with Percy would be the tough bit, and everything afterwards would be smooth sailing. None of the damned amatory novels we read just to make fun of talk about two years in, when you’re still bad at figuring out what the other person’s thinking and you’re dead terrified that a wrong move could send the best thing to happen to you spiraling away at top speed.

I’m so goddamned focused on Percy and _if you were a lady_ and what Felicity might write back and spirals that I nearly miss the entrance to the not-entirely-respectable (although I shall always maintain in front of Felicity that it is Very Respectable) casino in which I work. Honestly, it’s better than most of the Covent Garden scene. At least I can hear inside. It’s nearly nine, meaning if I win enough and therefore make enough to leave by twelve, I can walk home with Percy, whose show is five blocks over.

We’re not sorely in need of money anymore, having swindled Alexander Platt out of his coinage and London residence, but Percy and I have always wanted to go on a bit of a retour of Europe with a stop in Algiers, given that our first one, while certainly exciting, wasn’t necessarily the safest of affairs. Platt was once well-off, but he burned through most of his wealth on various drugs, so we need some sort of income in order to afford the trip and keep paying off the house, the banker who’s figured out I’m not actually Johanna’s husband, and the man who keeps our plants alive (Percy and I both nearly drowned them in our first week). Percy genuinely enjoys his job, so he kept playing shows, and although he told me several times that there was no need for me to keep working, I decided it was better than staying holed up in the house all day waiting for him to come home.

It isn’t that I’m a Professional Card Player, like Felicity always insists. Despite years of playing, I’ve always been sort of rubbish at most games. I’m more like a professional recognizer of who’s the most foxed. As long as I win something back for the casino, they’ll give me a cut, so I normally pick out the drunkest, stupidest group of the lot and play Pope Joan, a betting game that requires only the ability to pay attention, which they are often sorely lacking.

Tonight, the drunkest, stupidest group is huddled around a table in the back, all men my age or older, all laughing and clapping each other on the backs. The biggest, who is fantastically red in the face, sees me approach, and waves me over.

“Can I join?” I ask, surveying the table with a forced grin.

A weedy-looking fellow squints at me. “Bloody hell. What happened to your face?”

“I have many enemies, sir.” Well. Really, I used to. As of late, most of them are either beneath an island in Venice or avoiding me in order to not have to listen to me talk. That’s a detail I decide to leave out as I pull a chair up to the table. “This,” I wave a hand at my scars, “Is a remnant of a glorious duel.” Well. Does it count as a duel if you’re not armed?

I’m dealt into the game, and after seven rounds I’ve got a sizeable pile of chips sitting in front of me. The man sitting on my good side, who can’t be older than me and has a permanently sour expression, runs out of chips and tosses his wedding band into the pot, grumbling.

“About damned time,” he says.

I raise an eyebrow at him. “Trouble at home?”

“Not anymore. She ran off with one of the servants.”

Based on my fairly limited experience with the bloke, I can’t say I blame his wife for getting the hell out, but I’m not about to get myself punched and ruin the other side of my face, so I let out an emotionless “Ah,” and look the other way.

Another round starts, but the bloke is fairly tipsy and doesn’t notice, instead turning to me and asking “You got a girl?”

I take a moment to laugh at the ridiculous notion of me being with anyone but Percy before answering, “I’ve got someone, yes.”

“What’s she like?”

I’m able to play three cards in a row. Excellent. If I can keep this bloke talking, I’ll probably win the hand. “Kind. Funny. Loyal. Plays the violin. We’ve known each other for ages. Too good for me.”

“What’s she look like?”

Down to two cards now. I should be able to leave in time to meet Percy. Percy, with his faint freckles and beautiful laugh and magnificent hair, his gangly arms wrapped around his violin case like he’s afraid it’ll fly away if he’s not careful. “The most gorgeous thing on God’s green earth.”

“But you’re not married?” the bloke asks, pointing to my decidedly ringless hands just as I play my last card. A caricature of surprise springs to his face as he stares at the cards in his hand. He’s just realized we were playing.

I hum in response as I collect my chips. “This was lovely, lads, but I’ve got to run.” I start shoveling the chips into my pockets, and make my way to cash them in. As the croupier two tables down hands me my cut of the money, my fingers brush the wedding band I’ve won. I’ll probably sell it. I haven’t got any use for it. Maybe it’ll pay for a few nights in a room in Venice. I’d certainly like a do-over there.

The walk in the drizzling rain to the music hall feels like a near eternity, and although it’s only eleven, and I won’t get to really speak to Percy for another hour, I’m already smiling at the thought. I can smooth over whatever happened this morning and then we can go home. Maybe he’ll do the sums and we’ll have enough money to start planning when we leave. Three blocks into the journey, the rain begins coming down in sheets, and without an umbrella I’m left to either run or get soaked. Given that I’m wearing my highest heeled boots, I opt for the latter.

The music hall doors are still open when I arrive, and I slip in when the guard’s back is turned. I don’t dare try to find a seat, as the show’s already half over, so I stand towards the back as the gents near the front mill around, making quiet conversation over whiskey while the musicians play. I spot Percy on the far left, brow furrowed in concentration as he slides the bow across string.

I have never understood music’s appeal. It’s shrill and boring and made it difficult for me to hear anything else when I still had two ears. The only decent memory I’ve had in a music hall thus far is when we were in Paris, and really that had nothing to do with the music and everything to do with kissing Percy. Percy talks about this feeling he gets sometimes, like the sound is filling up his soul and mending all the worn-down bits. Music has never done that for me. But I understand what he means, because even as I’m stuck in a damnable music hall, soaking wet and tired, Percy’s face as he plays makes me feel like I’m bursting with sunlight, dazed and happy and filled to the brim with love. It’s a bit like what I remember of being drunk, except instead of numbing me to the world, everything feels a thousand times more in focus, and I’m not running from what I feel.

So. Music isn’t entirely dreadful.

My cheering is far too loud for someone trying to avoid notice when the song ends, and Percy’s eyes catch on mine. His shock gives way to beaming, and God, it might be the world’s greatest injustice that there are so many other people here, because in this moment I want nothing more than to throw myself at him and say, _Percy, I love you. Percy, you’re the absolute best thing on the face of the Earth. Percy, I’d run away with you again in a heartbeat, and I love you, I love you, Iloveyou._ And I must’ve been slower on the walk over than I thought, because he rises to take a bow along with everyone else and then starts descending the narrow staircase from the stage to the pit. I start pushing through the crowd, suddenly wishing I’d brought flowers to throw, until Percy’s within earshot and my hands are trembling.

“What are you doing here?” he asks, breathless and clutching his fiddle case to his chest.

My face is beginning to hurt from continuous smiling. “I got out early.”

His gaze flickers to my lips, and I’m just about to drag him somewhere safe at absolute top speed when one of his fellow violinists comes to congratulate him. The bloke’s well-dressed, dead exhausted, and his eyes snag on me.

He reaches to shake my hand. “Thank you for coming. I’m Richard.”

It takes all my willpower not to cringe until Percy leans in to my good ear and whispers, “He’s much better than Peele.”

“I hate Richard Peele,” I murmur out of sheer force of habit.

Percy smirks, and we both shout “WE HATE RICHARD PEELE.” Several people turn to stare. Richard Not-Peele is bewildered.

“Anyway, I’m Monty. I’m Percy’s…” I scramble for a word to tack onto the end of the sentence that feels appropriate, and I’m about to choke out _roommate_ of all things when recognition dawns in Richard Not-Peele’s eyes.

“So, this is Monty?” he asks, turning to Percy, who responds only with a bashful nod. He looks me over a second time and grins.

 _What the hell?_ “Sorry, I—”

Richard Not-Peele hands Percy a key on a string and says, “Nobody’s in my office.”

Percy pockets the key, gives him a pat of thanks on the back and nudges me towards the stage. I follow him up the steps and into a little room off of the wing. He locks the door behind us.

“Hold on, does Richard—did you tell—why—” I stumble over the words.

Percy sets down his violin case and sits on the desk that’s pushed against the far wall. “I may or may not have walked in on Richard and one of the cellists.”

I choke on my own laughter. “So, you what, decided to even things out?”

He’s blushing. “Well, no. He was worried I was going to say something, and I panicked trying to reassure him and said something along the lines of ‘why would I, I’d have to turn myself in too’ and, well—anyway, yes, he knows. About us. Sorry, I should’ve told you, but—”

I hop up onto the desk to sit next to him and press a kiss to his cheek “Don’t be sorry. If you hadn’t told him, I’d have to wait until we got home to do this—” I pepper his jaw and neck with kisses, and he grants me a gorgeous laugh. He pulls me to his chest and folds himself around me, and I press my face to his shoulder, my breath slowing to match his. God.

“I am so ridiculously in love with you, Perce,” I whisper to him. “I hope you understand how far gone I am for you. It’s laughable. I have officially become an amatory novel character, waiting for you to sweep me off my goddamned feet.”

And then, because Percy is a heartless son of a bitch, he takes the opportunity to scoop me up and spin me around in his arms. I shriek in a most undignified manner.

“You said you wanted me to sweep you off your feet, darling,” he says with a crooked smile. The front of his coat is damp from holding me.

“Not literally!” My voice is pitchy as I cling to him for dear life. I’d rather not get dropped today. I’ve spent plenty of our moments together bleeding out of my head already.

Percy presses his forehead to mine. “Too bad.”

He kisses me, and I melt a little, dizzy with happiness. Percy sets me on the desk before sitting as well, and I pull him down by his collar to kiss him again, complaining under my breath about how goddamn unfair it is that he’s so tall. He responds by moving closer, our noses bumping as my hands work my way up his spine and into his hair. I’m breathy and weightless as Percy presses me up against the desk, and my heart is pounding with him this close, and hellfire and damnation, it feels so _good_.

“Monty,” he mumbles, lips brushing mine. “We should go home.”

This, of course, is at the exact moment that I manage to get his hair loose from its queue, so, naturally, I have to finish mussing it up before I reply. “Right. Yes. Shall I go first? That way you can—” I gesture the curls I’ve just carded my hands through.

He kisses me on the nose and climbs off of me before he starts tying his hair back again. “Listen, about this morning—”

“Don’t worry about it, Perce,” I say, even though I’ve been doing nothing but worry about it, and he seems to take my words to heart, because he doesn’t bring it up again.

…………

The weeks fly by as Percy and I plan out what he’s dubbed ‘The Grand Tour Take Two: this time with far less getting shot at and far more of us being stupidly happy and sometimes taking part in _activities_.’

“If I remember correctly, there were a fair amount of _activities_ the first time around,” I say to that, grinning at how the tips of his ears go red.

“Only in Santorini,” Percy points out. “We missed out in Paris and Venice.”

“Paris? Paris is a shithole, Perce. You don’t really want to go back to Paris?”

“The music there was nice,” he says before kissing my cheek. “And we didn’t pay nearly enough attention to the Louvre museum last time.”

“If we’re at the Louvre together I’m going to pay absolutely no attention to the paintings.” I groan at his pleading expression before pressing my face into his shoulder and conceding. “Fine, you absolute goose. If you’re so keen on it, we’ll go to Paris.”

…………

_Monty,_

_I can’t even say that I’m surprised that you wrote me about this. I’m fairly certain that, in addition to making you soft, love has also made you thicker than I previously thought possible. But I’ll get to that in a moment._

_Algiers! It’s glorious. The food is magnificent, there’s interesting people everywhere, and Sim’s father has the money to let us travel. It’s beastly hot though. I’ve been getting some hands-on surgical practice since a Crown and Cleaver ship got caught up in a skirmish with the French Navy, and while there’s been no amputations yet, I’ve set several bones. At least those asinine embroidery lessons Mother had me take have finally come in handy—pirates really ought to try to get cut less. I’m not complaining, though. It’s been fascinating._

_Sim’s teaching Johanna and I Berber, and good Lord, between that and all the application of my medical studies, I think my brain might burst. I’m absolute shite at it, but Johanna’s actually half-decent. It’s even harder than Latin. The Eton boys wouldn’t stand a chance here. If I learn to read it, I’ll be able to study some of the medical texts at the library here. They haven’t got a room full of old white men in wigs for a surgeon’s board in Algiers, breathing down everyone’s necks and threatening to revoke medical licenses if you dare to think outside the box, so there’s a much wider range of practices. We were always told England has the best hospitals in the world, but honestly? They can’t compete with the efficiency and quality care people get here._

_Speaking of Johanna, it seems that she’s moved well past Percy, which I’m sure you’ll be glad to hear. It’s odd; do you suppose she could be like you, what with fancying both men and women? I caught her kissing a seamstress, and I’m not certain how I should go about telling her she hasn’t got to worry about me being horrid to her about it. Or if I should say anything at all. She’s been even more intent on her work than usual ever since, and while I enjoy Max’s company, he’s not the best for intellectual discussions._

_Sim isn’t nearly as terrifying now that I’ve watched her try to escape her gaggle of brothers. They were all eager to see her since she’s been gone for so long, and some of them are a bit overbearing. They nearly knocked her over with a hug. And she’s less on edge here than she was when you met her. I think it’s being among the rest of the Crown and Cleaver. She’s easier to relax. Her father’s already tried to wrestle her into an engagement with a merchant though. She had absolutely none of it. I thought our arguments were loud, but Christ, she sounded like she was ready to move heaven and earth. Not that I suppose I would’ve been any less emphatic. Her father ended up caving after about a week, and she, Johanna, and I went down to the beach and had a picnic to celebrate._

_Now, assuming that you’re still reading this, on to you and Percy. I’d hardly call it a crisis. I’d suggest speaking to him yourself, but given that you decided to write me, I’m going to guess that you’ve chosen not to take the easiest course of action._

_Monty, have you considered the fact that Percy is less… well, less of a scoundrel than you? Not that either of you is very concerned with institutional approval, but perhaps Saint Percy wants some version of what we were taught was the end-all be-all of romantic relations. It sounds like he was pointing out that, were you two the Church’s idea of a pairing, you’d have had a wedding, with all the bells and whistles. Although really, you’re far more disgustingly domestic than any married couple I know already._

_My one piece of actual advice, besides the exceedingly obvious “talk to him” would be this: don’t do anything rash. I could be missing the mark with my analysis of Percy’s words since I wasn’t there. Although it might be difficult for you, think long and hard. I wouldn’t make any empty gestures with this—if you’re going to do something about it, make sure it means something to the both of you._

_By the way, getting me out of a life-threatening situation that you also got me into is really just evening the score out._

_TALK TO PERCY._

_Your dearest sister,_   
_(You’re stuck with me as well.)_   
_Felicity Montague, surgeon (!!!)_

…………

I’ve never been particularly good at taking instruction, especially from Felicity, so I continue to ignore what is surely an impending discussion with Percy in favor of working and planning the Grand Tour Take Two. It’s not until nearly a week after her letter arrives that we finally broach the subject, and even then, I only initiate the conversation by accident.

We’re lying in bed, our legs tangled together, my bad ear pressed to Percy’s chest, when he asks “Do you suppose we’ll ever be considered normal?”

I grin. “Given that I’m a half-deaf bastard whose talents include flirtation, acting, and swindling people out of their money, and you’re an extraordinary violinist and the most gorgeous man to ever walk the earth? I doubt it.”

“I meant us. As in this.” He pulls me closer to him. “Do you think people years from now will look back and realize what we are and be fine with it? That we’ll have our place in the world?”

“I— I hadn’t thought about it, Perce,” I reply. And really, I hadn’t. For most of my life I’ve been so concerned with surviving the moment that I never bothered with hypothetical futures.

“You hadn’t?”

“You had?”

“A bit. Mostly years ago, when I first realized—well, when I realized I wasn’t feeling strictly friendly towards you. Somewhere in between _Oh my God, Monty touched my hand and I think I might die_ and _I’d really love to punch Sinjon Westfall’s perfect teeth out so Monty won’t write to me about him anymore_ I started up wondering if I’d ever be able to do all the things everyone else gets to do.”

“Like get married?” The words slip out before I can stop them.

He rolls over to face me, and his expression is unreadable in the dim candlelight. “Yes.”

“To me.”

Percy’s gaze flicks to the ceiling. “Yes.”

“Aren’t we essentially married already?” I ask. It feels like the wrong thing to say, but it’s what I’m thinking, so I say it anyway. “I mean, we live together. We say ‘I love you’ all the time. We share a bed and talk to each other about everything and cook for each other and make decisions together and take part in our fair share of fornication. What more is there to being married?”

“Boring society parties,” Percy says. “And a wedding, I suppose, although that seems excessive. It’s the principle of the thing, though. Even if we’re mostly married, I’d still like to walk up to people and not have to introduce you as my friend. I’d like to go all around Europe with you and kiss you in every damn museum on the Continent and not have to worry about everyone else.”

I can only hum and pull him into an embrace in response, because my stomach is sinking and I’m feeling that old familiar panic creep back in. _Percy doesn’t want you because he can’t be seen with you in public, Percy doesn’t want to have to hide his love and you make him do that, and Percy is going to leave you for a nice girl he can dance with in ballrooms and kiss after his concerts and call his in front of other people._

“What is it?” he asks after a moment. “You’re off somewhere else.”

“I—” I’m mumbling the words into his chest, and they’re still difficult to force out. My throat feels tight. “I’m sorry that I’m not the happy ending you wanted.”

He guides my eyes to his with a feather-light touch to my jaw, and really, I’m fighting not to cry at the kind look on his face. _He is too good for you, you aren’t good enough for him, and now you’ve dragged him down to your level, and if anything happens it will be your fault._ “Monty—”

“No, I just—I’m sorry that I’m embarrassing and a bit of an ass and that I don’t like music and that my only job is playing cards and that sometimes I can’t get out of bed and that I’m all scarred up and that you can’t take me to museums and—” I heave in a breath. “—And that I’ve gotten you stuck in a life where you’ve got to watch your back every time you kiss me and that we can’t get _married_ and that now you feel like you’ve got some kind of obligation to stick around and take care of me despite the fact that you could easily get the life you wanted.”

“Shit, Monty,” he whispers. “Shit, no. Christ—” He sits up so suddenly that I’m certain he’s about to leave and I sit up too, if only to hold onto him, and _God, how pathetic are you? You disgusting coward, you absolute mess, put your goddamn hands down, Henry—_

“Monty?”

Percy moves slowly, his hands gently closing around my wrists and guiding my hands to his face, and I’m shaking so badly I bump him on the side of his head. “Monty, look at me. I don’t want any other life. And I don’t take care of you out of obligation. I take care of you because I love you, just like you take care of me because you love me. And it is absolutely _not your fault_ that we have to be careful.”

“But if I wasn’t like this, we’d sleep in two separate beds and you’d be married to a girl who won’t get you arrested, and—”

“Darling,” he says, pressing his forehead to mine, and I think he might be about to cry too. “Listen. You are perfect just as you are, _like this_ and all. Anyone who tells you differently, especially your father, can go to hell.”

“You think that? Even with everyone saying differently?”

“Everyone thinks I’m possessed by demons because of my epilepsy. Does that make them right?”

I shake my head. God, how did I wind up with someone who knows exactly what to say? “I love you, Perce.”

He kisses me, soft and slow, and for a moment, at least, in his arms, I feel safe. “I love you too, darling. Do you want to make you some tea?”

…………

“Are you sure we’ve got everything packed?” I ask for the sixth time in the hour as Percy pores over our trunks. “You’ve got the books for Felicity?”

“Right underneath your coats, darling.”

I wring my hands. “And your sheet music?”

“Right here,” he says, holding up a leather-bound portfolio and pressing a kiss to my cheek. “The carriage is waiting outside.”

I cram one of his horribly-knitted hats onto my head and latch the trunk. “Alright, I’ve got it, it’s just—tell me one last time what the plan is?”

“Carriage ride to the coast, ferry to France, then a week in Paris. After that, on to Platt’s house in Zurich out of pure spite, then Venice, where the Eleftheria will be waiting. We’ll sail with them on to Santorini where I’ll inevitably badger you into swimming, then to Algiers. We stay in Algiers for the spring, before sailing back to London this summer. If we’re robbed—”

“Don’t even joke about that.”

“If we’re robbed, which seems ridiculously unlikely, as we’ve more than fulfilled our lifetime requirements for suffering on the road, we’ll make our way to the nearest city and write a letter to Scipio while laying low at a Crown and Cleaver hideout. Same goes for if I have a fit, or if you faint from sheer exposure to so many ‘pretentious’ art galleries.” His mouth twists. “We don’t have to go to the one in Zurich if you don’t want to.”

“Percy Newton,” I say, wrapping my arms around his waist. “I will absolutely put up with this cultural shite if it makes you happy. You should know you are the only man in the world capable of getting me into a museum.”

“I’m honored,” he says dryly, adjusting my hat so that it covers my ear.

“As you should be,” I reply. I give him a quick kiss. “Now, off to Paris.”

“Off to the Grand Tour, Take Two.”

…………

I spend the large majority of the trip to Paris alternating between being madly in love with Percy, which really, at this point, is quite standard for me, and mulling over my conversation with him. I’d always assumed he spent years agonizing over fancying men, same as I had. I can’t imagine growing up without that constant drone of _sinner, sodomite, scoundrel_ running through my head, but Percy had his own fair share of internalized shame from being dark-skinned and epileptic. Maybe it’s similar. We’ve both been told things about ourselves our entire life that we now know to be untrue.

We’re wandering about the Louvre in our best coats, brushing fingertips and both wishing we could do more than that, when I point out a painting in which a woman is wearing an expression of annoyance eerily similar to the face Felicity pulls every other time I open my mouth, and Percy tips his head back and just laughs and laughs. I swear to God, my soul nearly leaves my body at the sight, his eyes both bright and dark, his face tinged the slightest red, the curve of his neck above his collars decorated with marks I’ve left behind. All at once, I can understand why all of these artists would spend years capturing images in canvas and paint—I want to pin down this view, this moment, and hang it in a gallery so that everyone can see how much I love him. And if I can’t do that, I want to hold it in a locket over my heart, so that I can remember this for myself, every time I’m away from him, every time I feel cold and alone and I’m gasping for a drink. Every time one of the men at the casino reminds me of my father, every time I’m frustrated because I can’t hear properly, every time someone moves too quickly, I want to look back at this, at Percy, full of joy and love and laughter.

I take his hand on an impulse, only giving the room a quick sweep to make sure that it’s empty, and I pull him down hallways and through crowds and out into the late-afternoon winter sun. The street is bustling, and I cut through traffic and in between merchants, and all the while, the feeling of Percy’s hand in mine urges me on. He’s by my side now, eyebrows raised but grinning, and thank God we weren’t robbed on the way here, and that our inn is close by, and that I didn’t run or let myself believe everything I’ve been told or keep wishing I was dead, because then I wouldn’t be here, hand in hand with the loveliest person on the Earth.

The door to our room hasn’t even shut all the way behind us before I’m kissing him, and then I’m torn between rummaging through our luggage for that wedding band I won all those weeks ago and keeping my mouth on his. He makes the choice for me when his arms slide around my waist, and I think I might very well lose my mind with how in love with him I am. I have never gotten used to kissing Percy, to being able to kiss Percy, and here, with him pressed against me and my hands shaking as they fumble to unbutton his coat, I’m set alight with the feeling of it all. We’re stumbling towards the bed together, and if we wind up there I will well and truly forget the reason I’ve dragged us back here in the first place, so, despite my own protestations, I detach myself from him and dig around in my trunk until my hand closes around the ring.

“Monty,” Percy says, near breathless, from somewhere behind me, and then his arms are around me again. He plants a kiss on the back of my neck. “What are you doing?”

I spin to face him and show him the wedding band, my heart in my throat. It’s like trying to bring myself to kiss him in Venice again—I know he loves me, but God, I’ve never wanted anything as much as I’ve wanted this. “You’re my place in the world, Percy.”

“Monty,” his voice breaks a little, his gaze softening. His eyes shine as his face splits into a smile. “What are you doing?”

“You’re my place in the world, Perce, and that’s all I need. I’ve spent years hating myself for this, and then you’re here, and you don’t mind that I’m not perfect, and you tell me I am anyway, and you’re so brilliant and kind and funny, and I love you so goddamn much, and you looked so goddamn gorgeous just now, and I—” I stop myself for a moment, just to look at him, so I can remember this for always. I probably look a mess, out of breath and close to crying, but I can’t care. “What I’m saying is, we might not get a wedding, or a grand party, or a museum filled with reminders of how much we love each other, but it doesn’t matter to me, because I’ve got you, and that’s enough. You’re always so much more than enough.”

Percy is as open and raw as I’ve ever seen him, his nose crinkled the tiniest bit from his smile, tears running down his cheeks in waves, his hair disheveled. He’s shimmering in the light streaming through the window. “I wouldn’t trade you for anything. You know that, right? Not a thousand weddings or museums or a seat at the King’s table or to go back to Cheshire or to travel the whole world. You’re the most important thing in the whole world to me, and you don’t have to do this if you don’t want to. I’ll take you any way you’ll have me.”

“I know that,” I say, my lips ghosting against his. “And I want to.”

His hand shakes as I slide the ring onto his finger, and I kiss his knuckles. I wipe a tear from his cheek, and he says, “I love you,” with so much reverence and truth in his voice that it feels like the first time all over again. It feels like completeness.

“I love you too.”

It feels like home.

…………

The port of Algiers is bright and swirling with sound and color, every person a hurricane of activity and emotion and life. My fingers are laced with Percy’s as we descend the gangplank onto the dock where the girls and Max are waiting for us, the crew of the Eleftheria following behind. I rub my thumb over the ring absentmindedly. Scipio didn’t say anything when he saw it, just smiled and clapped us on the backs, and Georgie almost lost his head with excitement. The rest of the crew, even the new members, quickly got used to Percy and I standing at the railing of the ship and holding onto each other like it hurt to let go (which it does).

Felicity, God bless her, has finally traded her heavy dresses for trousers, though she’s still got those damned heeled boots. Her glasses are perched on her nose, her hair is pulled into a knot on top of her head, and she’s sandwiched between Sim and Johanna, giving me a look that’s half annoyance, half endearment. Sim glowers at me but grants Percy a nod, and Johanna is beaming. They’re accompanied by Sim’s father, who looks considerably more tired than the last time I saw him, although that’s probably mostly to do with his daughter’s enduring stubbornness.

“Hello, dearest sister,” I say, sarcasm creeping into my tone only out of habit. “Care to give your brother a hug after a year?”

She begrudgingly allows Percy and I to wrap our arms around her for a moment, then dislodges herself to examine us. “I’m guessing you took my advice?” she asks, her eyes catching on the ring, and I nod, grinning.

Johanna nearly tackles us with her hug, and Max soon follows, threatening to knock me straight to the ground. I can’t mind, though. “How have you two been?” she says, and Percy and I look to each other.

“Fantastic,” Percy says. “We checked in in Zurich, everything’s good there. Oh, and there was this museum in Venice that had entire rooms full of foreign plants and wildlife…”

Percy begins in on some tangent about naturalism to Johnna, so I offer a hand to Sim. She shakes it with a bit more force than is entirely necessary, and I say, “You’re treating my sister right, I presume.”

She rolls her eyes. “If by treating her right, you mean teaching her a new language, leaving her to practice medicine as much as she likes, and not being obnoxious, then yes.”

“We’re going to take an expedition across the Mediterranean together to round up some more dragon scales for mine and Johanna’s research,” Felicity adds, her eyes bright.

I can’t pretend to understand what exactly it is my sister has with this girl, with her pinched mouth and knit eyebrows and the way they never seem to touch, but they seem to make each other happy, so I say “Excellent,” and move on to Sim’s father.

“Monty Newton, Mr. Aldajah.”

“Captain,” he corrects, but he shakes my hand anyway.

“Newton?” Percy asks, the corner of his mouth quirking up.

I take his hand again. “I rather like it, don’t you?”

He kisses the crown of my head, and I couldn’t be happier. “Abso-bloody-lutely I do.”


End file.
